


Balcony Scene

by present_laughter



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:11:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/present_laughter/pseuds/present_laughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's never been so confused in his life, but with Lizzie Bennet standing in his yard in the middle of the night he has a hard time feeling upset about it. - My take on Lizzie and Darcy's reconciliation, written pre episode 95. LBD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balcony Scene

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after Episode 94 and although it’s been totally cannon-balled I felt like sharing it because I actually finished it which I never, ever do.  
> Disclaimer: LBD is the property of people who are a lot cooler, smarter, and more creative than me.

_Tap…_

_Tap…_

_Tap…_

It’s almost midnight when he hears it. Living his whole life in an incredibly large, incredibly old house, William Darcy is accustomed to strange noises in the night, but this one is unfamiliar. It’s too tinny for a dripping pipe, too hollow for a scratching rodent. It’s late – later than he’d intended to stay up before a predictable parade of _just one more page_ s marched him several chapters past his intended bedtime – and he feels incredibly reluctant to leave the warm embrace of his walnut four-poster. For a few paragraphs he is intent on ignoring it, but the noise persists. If anything, it becomes more frequent, begging to be noticed.

_Tap! Tap! Tap!_

He slides his bookmark into place – no dog-eared pages for the son of Anne Darcy – and places his book aside with an elaborate sigh, he’s not sure for who’s benefit. It’s only when he’s out of bed, bare feet flush with the cold hardwood floor, that he realizes the sound is coming from his window, a repeated rap against the thick glass. He shuffles across the room, arms crossed tightly across his chest to ward off the cold.

_Tap! Tap! Taptaptaptaptap!_

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mutters, pulling aside the curtain, and shoves open the casement. “Jesus Christ.”

“William Darcy, did you just say Jesus Christ?”

Whatever he’s expecting, she isn’t it. An overgrown tree-branch egged on by the wind. Some strange nocturnal animal trying to gain entrance to the warm house. Maybe even a stray cat that is really, really good at climbing. These are things he’s expecting, things he is prepared to handle. What he is not prepared for is Lizzie Bennet, standing in the wet grass beneath his window, armed with a handful of pebbles and a teasing smile.

“Lizzie?” he asks in shock.

“Hi,” she says, and he thinks she must be at a loss for words because the smile suddenly disappears and the pebbles – which bear suspicious resemblance to his front walk – thud softly into the grass.

“Hi,” he replies, bemused. He’s never been so confused in his life, but with Lizzie Bennet standing in his yard in the middle of the night he has a hard time feeling upset about it.

Lizzie is silent, rocking back on her heels.

“Did you need something?” he prompts.

“Yeah!” Lizzie replies, reanimating. She seems different tonight, strange, and it’s not just because of the whole pebble-window incident. It’s almost like she’s nervous, and he can’t decide if that’s good or bad. “I just wanted to talk to you. Can we talk?”

“Now?” Darcy asks, eyebrows raised.

“No, I came all the way here and threw rocks at your window in the middle of the night to say I wanted to talk tomorrow. Yes, Will, now!”

It takes him a full ten seconds to recover from the sound of his name on her lips, and when he does he sees her staring expectantly up at him.

“Ok,” he tells her. “I’m coming down.”

 

“Ok, I’m coming down.” Lizzie watches Darcy’s face disappear from the window and exhales a whoosh of breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. She’s at war with herself, anxiety and embarrassment and joy all fighting for foothold in her sleep deprived brain. A brain that, since Lydia’s confession earlier that evening, has had only one goal: to see William Darcy.

At first she’d only left the message, but when she thought about everything he’d done for her and her sisters, after everything she’s put him through, a phone call seemed so painfully, pathetically insufficient. Before she even knew what was happening, she was leaving a note on the kitchen table, and climbing into her car and heading north. As she hurtled down the darkening roads, the thought occurred that the message was plenty for now, and that really she was here because she missed him. Missed his deep voice, and his unexpected smile, and his stupid adorable bowties and his stupid beautiful eyes. And just between herself and the empty highway, she didn’t think it was wrong.

Her momentum had carried her all the way to his window, and when he had appeared, bleary eyed and bespectacled, on the other side, she’d felt an unparalleled thrill. Followed by total, gut-wrenching terror when she’d realized she had no idea what she was going to say to him.

The wooden thud of the front door startles her out of her horrified stupor. Will advances across the grass but comes to stop a few feet away from her. He’s managed to throw on a sweatshirt over the white t and Harvard sweatpants she caught him in at the window but she notices – as he shifts subtly from foot to foot in the damp grass – that he’s neglected to remember his shoes.

“Hi,” she says again, feeling a little queasy.

“Hi,” he repeats.

She glances at the ground, then back up at him. This much closer to him the situation feels infinitely more real, and Lizzie’s nerves skyrocket. Yet despite his disheveled appearance – and she knows she shouldn’t be thinking this but she’s exhausted and weirdly giddy and goddamn it if he doesn’t look sexy as hell – Darcy seems oddly calm.

“There was something you wanted to discuss?” he asks, arch.

For some reason, his teasing tone stings; as if he’s not taking this as seriously as she is. Whatever “this” is. A very large part of her is estimating how quickly she can make the sprint to her car, factoring in the wet grass and the fact that she hasn’t sprinted since tenth grade gym class. But then Darcy catches her gaze and he doesn’t smile or taunt or quirk that devilish eyebrow. His gaze is soft and affectionate, recalling tentatively playful costume theatre and early morning San Francisco sunshine. And suddenly, her nerves are all but gone.

“Yes,” she starts again. “Will, I know it was you that took down the website.”

“Ah.” Will shoves his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. Lizzie continues.

“I just wanted to – needed to thank you.”

“Lizzie, there’s no need,” Will says, glancing away. For the first time in this most bizarre of encounters, he seems uncomfortable, like this wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Of course there is!” she replies. “Will, what you did for Lydia, that was life-changing! And, I have a feeling, for Jane, too?”

Will is silent, his face poker-perfect. She wishes to God she could read him, but this man has always been a mystery to her. She shows up in the middle of the night throwing rocks and stammering and he’s friendly and charming as anything, and now she’s finally managing to thank him and all of a sudden he can’t look her in the eye.

“Thank you, William,” she says again.

“You’re welcome,” he replies with near Darcybot stiffness.

“Ok, what is your problem?” she asks. She means for it to come out lightly, but she hears the bite. “I’m just trying to thank you for what you did for my family.”

“Except I didn’t do it for your family,” Darcy interrupts.

“What?” Lizzie stammers in response.

 

“What?”

“I didn’t do it for your family,” Will repeats. Lizzie goes silent. Her eyes meet his, wide with surprise and something else he can’t identify. He can’t quite believe he’s here again, back at the edge of this precipice he swore he’d never cross again. But now that the words are out of his mouth he knows he has to take the dive. He can’t stop now. Couldn’t if he tried. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” Lizzie’s voice is quiet, but she doesn’t look away. Emboldened, Will takes a step closer.

“Lizzie, why did you come here?”

“I told you, I came here to thank you.”

“You drove three hours in the middle of the night and threw rocks at my window just to thank me?” he asks. He watches Lizzie look away and bite her lip and although under normal circumstances Will considers himself a strict man of science, he sends a desperate prayer to any deity that will listen that he isn’t about to lose her all over again.

“No.”

For all his prayers, hearing her give the answer he wants still surprises him.

“No?” he repeats, stunned.

 

“No?”

Lizzie shakes her head slowly, eyes fixed firmly on the ground where Darcy’s pale white toes are just visible between tufts of dewy grass, and for a moment she worries that she’ll burst out into laughter or possibly tears. She is Lizzie Bennet, master wordsmith. Lizzie Bennet, the girl who can’t shut up. Lizzie Bennet, who never thought something as impermanent as a boy or a feeling could stop her from keeping her cool and speaking her mind. Yet somehow, this man has reduced her to a nervous, speechless wreck, and she has no idea how to tell him how she feels.

“Look, Lizzie,” Darcy begins, seeking out her gaze. She tries to look away but his blue eyes fix on her own with an intensity that makes her forget to breathe, and she finds that she is incapable of looking anywhere else, and feels she may never be again.

“Lizzie,” he continues. “You’re too good to toy with me. If you really came here just to thank me, and you feel the same way about… about me as you did on Halloween, then I will humbly accept your thanks and this will be the last you’ll hear of it from me. But Lizzie I still – “

“Yes!” Lizzie interrupts.

“Yes?” Darcy echoes again. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, but Lizzie catches the beginning of a hesitant smile. She grins back.

“Yes, I would love to go to the theatre with you,” she tells him, and laughs as apprehension begins to dawn on his face. She steps closer, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. “I never got the chance to say that.”

“You want to go to the theatre with me?” he asks slowly. At their sides, his hand brushes against hers.

“William Darcy,” Lizzie says, smiling as their fingers entwine. “I would go anywhere with you.”

 

“I would go anywhere with you.”

Will feels a slow warmth pervading his chest as Lizzie folds her fingers with his. Her shy smile, the one of which he has so often daydreamed, seems even brighter and more beautiful now that he knows it’s for him. He raises his free hand to brush a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Slowly, relishing every second of contact, he moves his hand to cup her cheek, feeling the corner of her smile against his palm. His gaze flickers from the curve of her lips to her eyes, and he finds himself caught up in one of those long, intense stares that always made him worry he would do something stupid like pass out or propose and usually ended with him running out of the room. Except this time he’s not going anywhere.

 “There’s just one problem,” he tells her, while his thumb traces a gentle arc across her cheek.

“What?” Lizzie asks, unsure if he’s teasing her or not.

“The play closed last weekend,” Will replies. Lizzie laughs and it’s the best sound in the world.

“That is a problem,” she says, taking another step towards him, close enough for Will to feel the rise and fall of her chest with each breath.  She pulls her fingers from his to run them up his arm. “I think we can find another one though.”

“Yeah?” Will asks, wrapping his free arm around her waist. He pulls her closer and her fingers curl around the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Lizzie replies. They move together, Will lifting her up as Lizzie pulls him down, to meet in the middle in a kiss that has been far too long in coming. One that makes fireworks, sparkling and Technicolor, explode behind Darcy’s eyes, that makes Lizzie stretch up on her tip-toes, one hand grasping the back of Darcy’s sweatshirt while the other curls in his hair. One that begins sweet and slow but escalates quickly and ends with Darcy’s tongue in her mouth and Lizzie’s hands under his shirt. They break apart, grinning and gasping for breath, and Darcy drops his face into the crook of her neck, pressing a kiss against the heated flesh while Lizzie catches her breath.

She plays with the hair at the nape of his neck and says, “Wow, who knew you got so excited about theatre?” then laughs at her own joke while Will presses his lips up her neck. He finds her lips and they share another kiss, gentle and brief.

“It’s late,” Darcy murmurs, resting his forehead against hers. “You should spend the night here.”

“God, Darcy, don’t you wanna buy me dinner first?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Darcy insists earnestly, pulling away to see that Lizzie is grinning.

“I know,” she replies. “I just wanted to see if I could make you blush.”

Darcy can feel the heat flood his cheeks so by way of distraction he kisses her again. It works. Lizzie sighs, eyes sliding shut, as Darcy strokes a hand through her hair. He coaxes her lips apart – she is his new favorite taste, sweet and earthy like tea – and Lizzie clings to him like her legs have turned to jelly. With some effort, he manages to pull away, resting his forehead against Lizzie’s, taking both her hands in his.

“We don’t have to stop,” she volunteers quietly.

“Yes we do,” he replies. He wraps both arms around her shoulders, tucking her against his chest. “We need to sleep,” he explains, pressing a kiss into her hair.

“Uh-uh,” Lizzie murmurs into his neck. “Not tired.” The last word morphs into a wide yawn.

“Would you like to try that again?” Darcy asks, and feels her smile against his skin. He drops another kiss to the top of her head before releasing her reluctantly, keeping hold only of her hand as he nods in the direction of the house.

“Come inside. I’ll even let you pick which guest room you want to sleep in.”

“Of course you have more than one guest room,” Lizzie teases automatically as they track back through the dewy grass.

“Well, I try to be prepared,” Will responds innocently. “You never know when someone is going to show up in the middle of the night.”

 

–

  _Tap… Tap… Tap! Tap! Tap!_

 Darcy’s eyes snap open. He swipes for his glasses and stares at LED clock next to his bed, which tells him that it’s almost two-thirty in the morning. He groans, tossing the glasses away. Two hours since he’d climbed back beneath the covers – Lizzie settled in the Blue Guest Room (“Do you think this bed cost more or less that my graduate education?”) – and he hasn’t slept a wink. How can he, when Lizzie is asleep mere yards away. Thirty, to be exact. Three doors, two hallways, and one small staircase. He’s tossed and turned, counted sheep, even tried the stupid breathing technique Gigi insists her yoga instructor absolutely swears by, but it’s no use. He can’t keep his mind from wandering to things like the way Lizzie’s hair looked in the moonlight, or how soft her skin felt beneath his fingertips, or the little sigh she gave when he tugged her body against his. He’s just been in mourning for the pre-work jog he is definitely going to have to skip – not to mention how exhausted he’s going to be at the nine o’ clock board meeting – when the tapping interrupts his train of thought.

_Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap!_

This time it is coming clearly from the other side of his bedroom door. He sits up and fumbles momentarily as he attempts to switch on the bedside lamp, flooding his room with warm light.

“Come in?” he calls hesitantly. The door swings open and he can just barely make out Lizzie’s form in the doorway, fuzzy-edged in the half-light. Damn it, where did he put his glasses? He feels blindly around the covers, but comes up empty.

“Lizzie, is everything alright?” he asks, squinting as he tries to make out her face.

“I can’t sleep,” she replies, her voice low and intriguingly silky.

“Is their something wrong with the room?” he asks, reaching toward his bedside table and sweeping the surface with no luck.

“No, it’s not the room,” Lizzie answers. When he looks up he sees that she’s walked around to the side of his bed. And what is that she’s wearing?

“Because you know there are several other guest rooms that might be more to your liking, and Gigi won’t be home for a few days so her room’s free too and – “ He is cut off as Lizzie bends to pick something off the ground.

“Will,” she says, slowly sliding his glasses into place. “It’s not the room.”

Her image comes into focus and Darcy gulps. Lizzie is standing before him in one of the fluffy white bathrobes that hang in every guest room. And it doesn’t look like much else. His gaze slides from her eyes, sparkling with amusement, to where the hem let’s up well above her knees, down the long exposed length of creamy skin. His mouth goes dry. If he wasn’t sleeping before, he definitely won’t be now.

“Remember that thing I said before, about buying me dinner?” Lizzie asks, grinning.

“Yes,” Will confirms, lips quirking in a smile.

“About that,” Lizzie continues, fingers toying with the terrycloth tie. “I’ve reconsidered.” The robe slips to the floor and Darcy misses his jog, and his board meeting, and lunch, and nobody get’s any sleep for a long, long time.


End file.
